Signed, Sealed & Delivered

D2 is napping. D1 went with DOB to the credit union. Even the Guys Upstairs apparently have no housekeeping to do and no games to watch. (Well, of course not, they are napping after staying up all night, practicing the guitar.) The house is silent.

I don't know what to do with myself. So I shall blog.

DOB is going to the credit union to deposit a check received yesterday after signing several hundred pieces of paper. ("And this one is the certification that you've read and understood the Foreclosure Disclosure Enclosure, which is this 35-page stack of paper I have under the desk here.")

We were running late yesterday, as usual, and when we stopped by the house to check things one last time we discovered that the refrigerator had not been cleaned. The refrigerator is my housekeeping Nemesis. Goopy things go in there. Lids come loose mysteriously. Vegetables bought with noble plans get lost behind the peanut butter jar. One has to bend over, fight off D1, and waste large quantities of energy to clean it. Right after D2's birth, cleaning it wasn't even on my least favorite things to do list.

So we took out 15 minutes and the roll of paper towels thoughtfully left for us and tried to scrape off the unidentified goo. We didn't actually get it clean, but we got it to the point where it looked like we had just forgotten to clean it.

And now the buyer (our realtor's ex, which strikes us as unspeakably odd) has signed the papers and she's stuck with it. If the furnace breaks again, it's her worry. If the tub starts backing up, not our problem. All the headaches are hers now.

I miss our house.